“That’s the big assumption,” said Jack.
“So what are you going to do?”
“The meeting with Vivien Grasso is Monday. That doesn’t leave me a lot of time, so I guess I’ll do the only thing I can.”
“Dump the case, move on?”
“No way.” He took one last hit of coffee, then looked her in the eye and said, “I’m going to find out if Tatum Knight is believable.”
Seven
First thing Saturday morning, Theo Knight drove to Mo’s Gym on Miami Beach.
The Beach had a long boxing tradition, dating back even before a young and overconfident Cassius Clay trained and fought there to snatch the world heavyweight title away from the most feared champion of his era, Sonny Liston. Mo’s was a no-frills facility that catered strictly to amateurs. Not the kind of amateurs who flocked to self- defense classes after the September 11 terrorist attacks. These were serious tough guys, amateurs only in the sense that they had no license to box and didn’t at all aspire to be the next Muhammad Ali. They just loved to go at it, man to man, and Mo’s was good training for the more important fighting they did outside the ring. Anyone who walked into Mo’s had better know the ropes, so to speak, and he had better not freak at the sight of his own blood.
Theo found a chair near the center ring, where his brother, Tatum, was beating the holy hell out of someone who obviously had no idea who the Knight brothers were.
Theo and Tatum had fought plenty, no ring, no gloves, no glory. Toughing it out with gangs wasn’t exactly the life Theo would have chosen for himself, but the illegitimate sons of a drug addict didn’t have many choices. Their aunt did her best to raise Theo and his older brother, but with five of her own, it wasn’t easy. Tatum was always introuble, and Theo inherited a bad-boy reputation and a slew of enemies without even trying. Not that Theo was a saint. By the time he’d dropped out of high school, he’d done his share of car thefts, small-time stuff. Compared to Tatum, he was the good brother-until the night he’d decided to help himself to a little cash in a convenience store and walked into a living nightmare. It was the kind of trouble people expected of Tatum, not Theo. Over the years, he’d managed to push that night into a corner of his brain that he never visited. But as he sat there watching his brother pulverize his opponent, he found his mind slipping back in time, the memories spurred on by the smells and sights of Mo’s, the fighting all around him, the gang graffiti on the walls, the walk and talk of dead-end kids.
Four o’clock in the morning, and the city sidewalks were still hot. It was mid-July in Miami, and for three consecutive days there had been no afternoon rain to cool things down. Fifteen-year-old Theo sat in the passenger seat of a low-riding Chevy, the windows rolled down, the music blasting from rear speakers that filled half of the trunk. He wore his Nike cap backward, the price tag still dangling from the bill. Sweat pasted his black, baggy Miami Heat jersey to his back. A Mercedes-Benz hood ornament hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. It was the required uniform of the Grove Lords, a gang of badass teenage punks from Coconut Grove led by chief thief Lionel Brown.
The car stopped at the red light on Flagler Street, a main east-west drag that ran from downtown Miami to the Everglades. They were just beyond the Little Havana neighborhood, outside the Miami city limits, in a rundown commercial area that catered to shoppers in search of used tires, stolen jewelry, or a good porn flick. On weekends it was always congested, but in the wee hours of Wednesday morning traffic was light.
“Chug it,” said Lionel from the driver’s seat.
Theo took the half-pint of rum, exhaled, and sucked it down. It burned the back of his throat, then his senses numbed and he felt the rush. He got every last drop.
“My man,” said Lionel.
Theo suddenly felt dizzy. “Where we going?”
“Shelby’s.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that?” Lionel was smiling for no apparent reason. “That be your ticket, my man.” Lionel took a right turn off Flagler. The Chevy sped down a side street, then came to a quick halt at the dark end of an alley.
“Seriously, what is it?” said Theo.
“A convenience store.”
“What you want me to buy?”
“You ain’t buyin’ nothin’. Walk up that alley, turn left at the sidewalk. Shelby’s is open twenty-four hours. You goes in, grab the cash, get the hell out. I’ll wait here.”
“How I gonna just grab the money? What if he gots a gun?”
Lionel chuckled and shook his head. “Theo, man, don’t be such a pussy.”
“I ain’t no pussy.”
“You gettin’ the easy ticket, okay. It ain’t usually this easy to become a Grove Lord, but your brother, Tatum, well, he got pull. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
“No. What the hell’s so easy about robbin’ a convenience store with no gun?”
“You don’t need no gun.”
“What you want me to do, walk in and say please?”
“Ain’t no one to say please to.”
“Say what?”
Lionel checked his big sports watch. “It four twenty-five now. Shelby’s got one clerk from three-thirty to five- thirty. Every morning at four-thirty, that one clerk has to go out back in the alley and set up for deliveries.”
“He don’t lock the front door?”
“Sometime he do. Sometime he forget.” Lionel handed him a small crowbar and said, “Take this. In case he don’t forget.”
Theo stared at the crowbar in his hand.
Lionel said, “You want to be a Grove Lord, or don’t you?”
“Shit, yeah.”
“You got five minutes to prove it. Then I’m gone, wit or wit’out you.”
Their eyes locked, then Theo yanked the door handle and jumped out. He was no long-distance runner, but a hundred yards straight down an alley was quick work for him. The passageway was narrow and dark with just a lone street lamp at the front opening. He took it at full speed, zigzagging around a row of Dumpsters and leaping over a pile of garbage. At the sidewalk he slowed to a casual stroll, and turned left toward Shelby’s. The crowbar was tucked in his belt, hidden by his long, black jersey.
Shelby’s faced a parking lot, which it shared with a Laundromat that had closed hours earlier. To Theo’s relief, the lot was empty. He kept walking, briskly but not so fast as to draw attention to himself. Neon signs glowed in the plate-glass storefront. The trash can at the front door was overflowing, and little white plastic shopping bags dotted the sidewalk like a field of dandelions. It was only a few meters, but it seemed to take forever to reach the door. He glanced inside. No sign of the clerk anywhere. Had to be out back, just as Lionel had promised. The crowbar seemed heavier in his pocket as he reached for the door and pulled the handle. The latch clicked, and the door opened. Theo was almost giddy at the thought: the clerk had forgotten to lock it.
Dumbshit.
Theo walked inside, past the eight-foot-high display of canned soda, past the snack rack, past seven hundred different kinds of gum and mints. He stepped carefully but quickly, making not a sound in his sneakers. He reached the checkout counter and stopped. The cash register was right in front of him. He listened, straining to hear anything that might tell him where the clerk had gone, but he heard only the hum of the refrigerated units behind him.
Theo checked his watch. Two minutes had passed. He had three minutes to grab the cash and meet Lionel in back. His pulse quickened. He could feel himself sweating, and for a moment he couldn’t move, paralyzed by the voices in his head, his aunt telling him to high-tail it out of there, his older brother, Tatum, yelling, Pussy, pussy,
